Northern Stallion
by Kriegcast
Summary: How he arrived was a mystery, but he is now free from his old life, if not the memories. She has wandered far, disconnected from the world, but a message from an old friend set her on a new path. In the frozen north of Skyrim, these two will meet, and perhaps together, they can have purpose again. Rated T for now but...well...Skyrim.


Disclaimer: I do not own Elder Scrolls, Skyrim, Ranma ½, or any material therein.

 _How long has it been?_

He asked himself that question every once in a while. It was always there, in the back of his mind. He pushed it away with exhausting practice in his Art. He let it fade while he was fighting for his life. He ignored the echo as he watched the villagers go about their daily lives.

 _How long has it been?_

It never went away, but he could move past the old pain, past the regrets and memories. Sometimes he could even ignore the other question that always followed.

 _How can I go back?_

He wasn't normally prone to introspection. His life was one that did not allow for second-guessing, especially in his new home. Learn, adapt, improve. These tenants of his Art served him well. Protect the weak. His Code had suffered somewhat. He didn't use to need to guess who the weak were in his life, his world.

 _How can I go back?_

Back then, in the place he had not seen in such a long time, everyone else was weak. Sure, his father had his hidden techniques, the old letch had his tricks, the old ghoul had her ancient skills, but none of them could hold a candle to the God-slayer. He had realized it too late, that his rivals, his...friends...were falling behind. His training, his ability to learn and master other skills, and his ki manipulation set him apart from the rest of the NWC.

His ki manipulation was both a blessing and a curse. His strength had grown, but his body had adjusted too well. Like the two old masters, his life had been extended, aging at a slow pace. When he understood this, his exile was almost a boon. At least here, in this world, he would not have to see them all wither, fade away while he remained strong in body. When he remembered this, the question changed.

 _Why should I go back?_

That one was harder to ignore. He had grown accustomed to this world, become familiar with the rules and the players in this game. Some of them were easy to understand, while others were still alien to his mindset. He was never one for complicated ideals and politics. Combat, tactics, survival; these things he excelled at and put to good use after being sent here.

The world was different compared to his native land. The cold, the people, even the language were foreign to him. Japan could experience cold winters, but nothing compared to some of the places he had been to in this northern land. His English, while passable due to exposure to Americans from the military bases in Japan, had gradually mixed with the local dialects. If he were to return to his home, British and Americans would say he had developed a strange mixture of Scottish, Irish, and southern drawl.

His accent set him apart wherever he roamed in this land, thought he had not crossed the borders due to the civil war. The mountain passes were watched carefully by both sides, and he didn't fancy a trek through the harsh terrain. He avoided the patrols with ease, not having an interest in either side. To be fair, he wasn't really sure what side he would take if he had a stake in the outcome.

He had made himself a home south of a small village called Rorikstead, on a grassy hill overlooking a deep drop to a river. He was in sight of a nearby ruin, but a group of primitive tribesmen, called Forsworn, had taken up residence there. Eventually, when he made it clear that he was not planning on causing trouble but wouldn't be forced to leave, the Forsworn ignored his presence. They still spied on him, but at least they had given up trying to kill him in his sleep. His sleep-fu skills never failed.

He hunted, foraged for berries, roots, and herbs, and occasionally treated himself to some wild honeycomb from a nearby beehive. It was a simple life, occasionally livened up when bandits attacked or he traveled. The locals asked him to do various tasks around the area, including clearing out a bandit camps, killing wild animals, or driving off giants who wandered too close to farmland. It kept him busy and the villagers would gift him with food, supplies, or tools.

He was considered an oddity by many in town, and, unbeknownst to him, rumors persisted about the strange-looking young man who lived alone in the wild. Travelers told stories of how he wrestled bears and used strange magic to kill from afar. Even Jarl Balgruuf was told of these tales, though he attributed it to superstition. The rumors spread to all the holds as time went by, but were distorted so badly that the source of the rumors wouldn't recognize himself in the tales.

He lived, he survived, and he became more familiar with the world he was trapped in, and how it affected his body and spirit. The rules were different, more complex here, but as always, he adapted. His ki attacks required no emotional fuel, but were far more exhausting to perform in rapid succession. He felt slower and weaker, almost like when he first came to Nerima, all those years ago. Of course, to normal people, his strength and speed were beyond human, but to him, it was a difficult trial to get used to his weaker state.

Things were not all bad. The situation with his curse form was a silver lining in this cloud of troubles. He had merely touched one of the shrines to Julianos, the god of magic in this world, and his curse was broken. It also affected him mentally, healing old training injuries caused in his youth, as well as what modern doctors would call brain damage, specifically dealing with hormones and emotional responses. He was calmer, more prone to thinking things through, and had learned to appreciate knowledge.

There was more to life than the Art.

This revelation did not prevent him from continuing his training; he simply enjoyed other things besides the Art, such as reading, music, and history. Most of the subject material was of a military or action-oriented matter, but it was progress.

This was the life he lived, and while it was not the one he had envisioned for himself, or the one his family and friends dictated he should have, it was his. He was the master of his own destiny here.

 _How long has it been?_

That no longer mattered. He himself didn't know how long he would live, given his ki abilities, but he would live his life.

 _How can I go back?_

He never did find the answer. In truth, all of his attempts met with failure or the realization that he would have to involve himself in one of those Daedric cults.

 _Why should I go back?_

He didn't know. He didn't have a purpose here, but he was free. That was something he never really have before. Could he go back to the way things were if given the chance?

No. He would not trade this feeling for anything. It was time to let go of the past and look forward to tomorrow.

Ranma Saotome looked up to the two moons in the sky, smiled, and went to sleep in his tent. Life in Skyrim wouldn't be easy, but he never lost.

A/N: Okay, so it's been a while. Sorry. With work and money troubles and life in general, I haven't really been feeling the fanfiction bug lately. This is something that I want to try and get out there in the hopes that it puts me back in the writing mood. Please read, review, and ignore if desired. If you're willing to hold on, I'll try and keep going here.


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